


Safe and Sound

by 221b_hound



Series: Guitar Man [110]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Menstruation, Sherlock is a Good Parent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-13
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-06-08 04:37:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6839335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Violet Morstan Watson had the Puberty Talk one more time she's going to SCREAM. But when she's at school and her period begins, the only parent who hadn't given her the Talk is the one who comes take her home: Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safe and Sound

**Author's Note:**

> I met Jujubeans the other day (Hello Jujubeans!) and we ended up talking about the kinds of Talks we got from our parents about puberty and how far in advance we were prepped by our mums for menstruation. I remembered I had notes for a story on the subject, but the original idea that was full of silly tropes about the awkwardness of fathers became something else. Mostly because I'm tired of the idea that menstruation is some mystic weirdness that men are too delicate to know about or be comfortable with. I say, Fuck That Shit.

Some great drama had erupted in the project in Vanuatu and so Violet’s two mums had jetted off, super-quick to ‘sort out that colossal picklewit McCready before he inspires justifiable homicide’, leaving Violet with her Dad and Sherlock (also kinda her dad) for the week, because she’d just started school for the term and apparently Mum had come over all responsible and Rupe just thought it would be easier and _bugger_ , Violet was annoyed.

She’d been feeling a bit weird for a few days now. Before Mum and Rupe left, they’d both been that super-awkward type of thorough they could be, telling her again that the changes in her body were all natural and fine, and that one day in the next year, probably – but don’t worry if it wasn’t yet –she’d begin to have her periods ( _menarche_ , it was called, said Rupe) and that would be the start of their little girl beginning her journey to womanhood.

Usually Violet loved their thoroughness; she felt really trusted that they knew she’d understand, and a bit doctorly, knowing all the medical terms she learned from Dad, and properly armed with knowledge, which Sherlock always said was a good thing, but not this time. This time she was just cranky. She had all this hair sprouting up under her armpits and on her _mons pubis_ (also called _mons veneris,_ which meant _Mound of Venus,_ trust Rupe to be very thorough on the linguistic side of things.) Her chest was sore on one side, unless it was the day when it would be sore on the other side, because of _thelarche_ (booby hatching, Kez at the new school had called it, which made it sound like ducks’ eggs, _for fuck’s sake_ , as Dad would say) and training bras were stupid and itchy and _what were they training for_? and why did her mums have to go away for work _now,_ when she felt so horrible and achy and sore and out of sorts?

Violet was thinking these irritable, aching, I-don’t-know-why-I-want-to-cry thoughts as she rose with the bell to go to lunch. Kez, sitting behind her, grabbed her suddenly by the shirt and roughly tugged her back down onto her chair.

“Kez, what the bu- _hell_?” (even in her current state she remembered she wasn’t supposed to go _buggery-fuck_ ing around like Dad did in a _mood_ ).

“You’ve got blood on your skirt,” hissed Kez, urgent and excited and filled with some primeval kind of dread all at the same time.

“Bu- I mean, really?” Violet tried to stand again, to crane around and see how the hell she’d cut herself without realising, only Kez shoved her back down again, and she twigged just as Kez whispered too loud in her ear:

“You got your period, Vi! Like Penny Dreadful did last week!”

“Don’t call her that,” said Violet darkly, then sat and frowned. “How much blood is there?”

Kez, who didn’t like being told not to call Penny Dredder names, said, “ _Gushes_ of it.”

Violet knew Kez was being a little cow about it, because of the Penny thing, she _knew_ it, but that didn’t stop the blood draining from her face, and then rushing back in, making her feel hot and awkward and really, really, really upset and it was odds-on whether she’d burst into tears or just turn to Kez Thomas and call her a mean _guttersnipe_ (Uncle Mycroft used that word once and she loved it) and then deduce the _shit_ out of her, when Mr Nyström came over to them.

“What’s up here, girls? You should be going to lunch.”

Kez smirked. The cow. Violet set her jaw and looked straight into Mr Nyström’s pale grey-green eyes. They reminded her of Sherlock’s eyes, which reminded her to be clear, scientific, and straight to the point, no matter how much she wanted to cry.

“I’ve got my period I think, Mr Nyström, and I’ve got blood on my skirt it’s my first period and my mums aren’t here and Dad’s got a hospital shift and I don’t know if Sherlock is even at home and I don’t want to go to the playground I’d rather stay here can I stay here till someone comes to take me home I want to go home can I go home please? I don’t feel very well.”

And _then_ she burst into tears; quiet but persistent sniffles, with the tears running down her face like a salty waterfall.

Mr Nyström, who was a good sort with a tween girl of his own, sent Kez to get the tissues from his desk at the front of the room, while he called the nurse and the front office to call Violet’s parents. He gave Violet the box of tissues, which she clutched, feeling angry and embarrassed and wretched. Kez smirked and ran off to have lunch and a gossip, no doubt.

“The nurse has some hygiene products you can use,” said Mr Nyström, “She…”

“Don’t make me walk through the hall to the nurse!” yelped Violet, “I can’t walk anywhere with gushes of blood all over me I don’t want to walk anywhere I want to go home is someone coming who’s coming? I want to go home!”

“It’s all right, Violet,” said Mr Nyström gently and kindly, while Violet stared at him with round, horrified eyes. “We can stay right here. Ms George says someone’s coming for you right away. All right? It’s all right. I can get Nurse to sit here with you until they arrive, though, if you like. She can tell you anything you need to know…”

“Don’t you want to sit with me?” Violet didn’t know why she was being so cranky and demanding, but there it was and she was glaring at Nice Mr Nyström.

Nice Mr Nyström only said, “Most girls feel more comfortable with a woman at a time like this.”

“That’s illogical. _Menarche_ is perfectly natural and not some kind of dirty secret that men shouldn’t know about,” she grumbled, while at the same time thinking that it might be quite nice, really, to have the nurse or Mum or Rupe here, but that maybe it shouldn’t matter, and why was she so confused about everything?

Probably because she ached all over and she was embarrassed and she was just so uncomfortable because her body wasn’t _fitting_ right any more. “My Dad’s given me the Puberty Talk at least as often as Mum, though he usually has textbooks about it too. Sherlock says it make Dad feel more prepared and on top of it. Even Mrs H has given me the Talk. It’s getting so I can’t get out of bed in the morning without someone lurking in the hall to corner me and tell me about The Mysteries of Burgeoning Womanhood when all I want is for _everyone to stop talking about it_.”

Nice Mr Nyström blinked, said quietly that yes, parents sometimes did try a bit too hard but they meant well and one had to make allowances. That made Violet laugh, as unexpectedly as she’d cried.

“Violet?”

Violet looked up at the deep voice to see Sherlock standing in the doorway, an overnight bag in one hand, and the nurse right behind him. His brow was furrowed in concern and he was giving her searching looks. Violet blinked at him, and he nodded, as though he understood everything.

Sherlock shrugged off his coat as he came into the classroom and threw it over Violet’s shoulders as he reached her.

Mr Nyström nodded and smiled kindly again. “I’ll be outside if you need anything, but I’m sure you’re all right from here.”

“Thanks, Mr Nyström,” said Violet, a bit apologetically after having been so snappy.

The nurse placed a little florally wrapped parcel on her desk and said, “The bathroom is just down the hall. Do you know how to use…?”

“Yes,” said Violet, trying very hard to be patient, “I _know_.” She rose, Sherlock’s best and favourite coat falling over her shoulders and back, and she worried a bit that she was going to make a mess of it with all the gushing, even though he wore it to crime scenes all the time and really it shouldn’t bother her so much, because he…

“Violet.” Sherlock placed a hand on her shoulder and looked straight into her eyes. “It’s just a coat, and it’s fine. I have a complete change of clothes for you here.” He pushed the overnight bag into her hand. “I’ll wait with your teacher and you can change, and then I’ll take you home.”

She nodded and, head held high, no more crying, she went down to the girls’ bathroom to change her clothes.

Sherlock stood beside Mr Nyström. They exchanged a kind of knowing nod, the solidarity of fatherhood.

Violet emerged from the bathroom a little while later, skin flushed and damp from the thorough scrubbing she’d given herself to obliterate the stupid tears, the Belstaff still draped over her shoulders. (She loved Sherlock’s Belstaff; she loved how it smelled and how heavy it felt and how Sherlock _loved it like child_ , Dad teased, but every time in her life when she’d been cold or scared or just needed it, Sherlock had draped it round her like he was giving her his own special protection.) Her soiled clothes were jammed into the bag.

Violet still felt achy and her _hatching boobies_ hurt and she still felt a bit like crying, but she felt better now that Sherlock was going to take her home.

In the car, Violet sat silently next to Sherlock while he drove them, the coat still round her shoulders. Then, in another of her weirdly defiant moods, she said, “I’m a proper grown up woman now. In some communities, I could get married.”

“Anyone in mind?” Sherlock asked mildly.

Violet giggled, the mood broken. “No! I’m only _thirteen_.”

Sherlock did that thing where a tiny smile tried to escape out the side of his mouth and she sobered again.

“ _You’re_ not going to give me the Puberty Talk now are you?”

“I suspect that’s been thoroughly covered by Mary, Nirupa, Mrs Hudson and John. Possibly also by the school sex education program, several of your school friends and age-appropriate books on the subject left casually but deliberately in various places at school, at home…”

“In my school bag, in my suitcase…”

“Though if you have any questions, I am at your disposal.”

Violet gave him a sideways look. “Have you been boning up, in case?”

Sherlock sighed slightly. “Your father asked me the same thing. It doesn’t appear to occur to people that in the course of my work, I _have_ studied the subject.”

“This better not be some bullshit – sorry Sherlock – _rubbish_ about PMS turning women into homicidal lunatics.”

Sherlock’s expression was deeply judgemental. “You know perfectly well – at least I assume your eminently sensible mothers have told you – that that is not how pre-menstrual stress generally operates in the menstruating population. However, recognising a number of signs that a woman is possibly menstruating has been instructive more than once, and on one occasion broke a man’s alibi. Quite apart from behavioural clues – and I am talking about visits to bathrooms at regular intervals and pharmacy purchases, among other things – there is the difference between menstrual blood and venous blood. Oh, and speaking of pharmacy purchases…” Sherlock indicated a bulging plastic bag on the back seat. “I stopped on my way for your supplies.”

Violet dragged the bag onto her lap and stared at the packs and packs and packs of sanitary pads and tampons inside it. “I don’t think I’m going to have my period for this long, Sherlock. How many types did you buy?”

He cleared his throat, his first sign of any embarrassment. “I haven’t conducted or therefore concluded any studies on which are the best products. So I asked the assistant for her recommendations and got all of them. So you can find what is most comfortable for you.”

Violet folded the bag shut again and hugged it to her like it was a teddy bear. “Thanks Sherlock.” She felt inexplicably teary again, and was ninety-to-ninety-six-percent sure she wasn’t anything like normal.

“You’re welcome, Violet,” he said, very seriously.

Violet clicked on the radio, tipped her head back against the headrest and closed her eyes as something soothing with violins swelled into the cabin of the car.

At home in Baker Street, Violet showered and stuck a fresh pad to her knickers and pulled on her flannel pyjamas with the rockets on them and then her Dad’s dressing gown, which went to her ankles and made her look like a hobbit, and then put on her woolly slippers and shuffled out to the living room.

Sherlock had already made her hot chocolate and put a big piece of Mrs H’s orange poppy seed cake onto a plate for her, and left them on the coffee table next to the sofa, which also had a big fluffy blanket and an orange shock blanket folded up on it. His Belstaff was hanging on its hook again.

Violet tucked her feet up onto the sofa and Sherlock sat beside her. She pulled the shock blanket up around her shoulders (it smelled lovely, like baby powder and tea and a little bit like smoke from that time Sherlock set fire to an experiment, when Violet was four, and made her laugh so hard she bumped her head on the music stand). She pulled the fluffy blanket over her lap and took up the hot chocolate. She sipped it. Perfect. Like it always was when one of her parents made it for her.

Sherlock handed her the smart tablet with her favourite headphones already plugged into it. She settled them over her head and tapped on the screen until her favourite film opened. The opening credits rolled and she looked at Sherlock, sitting quietly and calmly and solidly right next to her, not making a fuss. And Violet felt warm, and not achy and not sore, and calm as anything, and she didn’t feel like crying any more.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from the song [Safe and Sound](https://youtu.be/47dtFZ8CFo8) by Capital Cities.


End file.
